


...Don't Wanna Be Right

by bellecat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:10:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellecat/pseuds/bellecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is a self-contained ficlet originally posted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They Grew Up Wearing Layers

**

They Grew Up Wearing Layers

**

They grew up wearing layers. It wasn’t something their Dad taught them - not with encouraging words, anyway. It was something they learned from experience, from sleepless nights shivering in the back of the Impala because their clothes were in the trunk and they couldn’t risk waking their father (drunk again; at least he pulled off the road) to go and get them. 

It was something they learned from smarmy hotel managers, who chased them out because their dad wasn’t back yet, and the room had only been paid until the previous night, and they had to huddle outside until they could sneak back under cloak of stars and work the door handle, pick the lock. It wasn’t always cold, though, and if they were hot they had something to place on the ground, sit on, cushion their bottoms from gravel and twigs. 

It was something they learned from hunting - monsters trying to swipe you with claws or fang could be stymied that last split second, that moment between home free and breaking the skin in a long gash if it was the clothes on their backs they ripped up instead. 

It was something that Sam tried hard to unlearn when he went to Stamford. He had a home - of sorts - that he wouldn’t get kicked out of, wouldn’t have to deal with cold night air (unless he left the windows open) or wendigos or anything else but he found out that restaurants could be chilly too and girls liked it when you could offer them a jacket or big oversized shirt they could swim in to keep them warm. 

Now the layers of t shirts and flannel shirts and jackets are wrapping paper in the dimming light and Sam takes his time, unwraps Dean slowly with wet, open mouthed kisses along his jaw line, nips at his ear as he pushes the jacket away to pool at their feet.


	2. Field Dress My Wound to Stop My Heart From Leaking Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted: Somehing involving Dean breaking down and telling Sam he cant take it anymore and Sam cuddles him and comforts him yeah. 
> 
> And a reminder that this story is a series of self contained, short ficlets.

**

Field Dress My Wound to Stop My Heart From Leaking Out

**

He couldn’t do this anymore. 

He’d killed a human. 

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t killed any humans before - when they were on the side of the monsters, or possessed by them. It wasn’t as if he wanted to but sometimes there wasn’t another choice - at least, not one he felt more comfortable taking. 

This was different. This was wrong. This was agonizing. 

He curled his fingers tighter around the bottle, bringing it up for another gulp, relishing the burn in his throat (he could barely feel it anymore; he was too far gone) and hoping it would cart him right on off into oblivion. He blinked blearily as the bottle was removed from his hand (didn’t he just have a grip on it?) and looked up into Sam’s stern face. 

“No more tonight Dean,” he said. 

Oh. That’s where the bottle had gone. “Gimme,” he rasped. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam told him. “He was messing with your mind, man.”

“Still my fault, Sammy.” Dean made an unsuccessful grab for the amber bottle, but all he got for his trouble was to find himself sprawled face down on the floor. 

Sam hauled him back up to his feet and tumbled him backwards onto the bed. It took him a moment to realize that Sam was tugging off Dean’s boots, reaching for the fastenings on his jeans. 

“Not t’nite, Sammy,” he slurred, batting his brother’s hands away. 

Sam didn’t bother to listen. “Not tonight,” he agreed. “You’re not sleeping in your jeans though. You’ll bitch about it the morning.”

“S’what I d’serve.”

Dean thought maybe the denim had been worked off his body now but he wasn’t sure, couldn’t quite lift his head to check and see. He kept seeing the image of the kid he’d killed - all gangly youth and wide blown eyes, floppy hair - reminded him of Sammy at that age and it didn’t matter that the damn creature was making him see things that weren’t there, he’d shot a kid. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Sammy,” he mumbled as his brother slid in to the bed with him, rolling him onto this side and drawing him tight against the lines of his body. “Can’t, can’t, can’t.”

“Sshh,” Sam murmured against his neck, lips pressed against the skin like he could take all of Dean’s pain with a kiss. “Ssshh, baby, I’ve got you,” he said again, and Dean thought distantly that on a normal night he might feel smothered with the weight and press of Sam’s arms but as much as he loathed himself, tonight they just felt safe. 

He felt more kisses pressed to his hairline, the worry of his skin between Sam’s teeth in gesture that might have been sexual the night before, right now just comforting. Grounding, inasmuch as he could be grounded when he was flying high off the booze. 

Sam’s thumb slid against the wetness of his face and smoothed it out, took away the salt-tears as they formed. “Sleep,” Sam breathed into his ear, “I’m here. Sleep now, baby.”


End file.
